who, what, when, where, why, how
by tunnelOFdawn
Summary: An examination of the relationship between Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki: How unfair, Midoriya thought, that the sun could touch Kacchan in ways that no man ever could. The sun lit him up from the inside-out—his skin, luminescent. Sunlight lent him righteous divinity—crowned in white-gold and ruby-eyed. To be the sunbeams dancing on his skin, Midoriya wished.


**who**

Rubies embedded in his sockets. Determination. Ambition. Thin-lipped and scowling. Angry. Thunder.

Emeralds embedded in his sockets. Determination. Ambition. Broad-mouthed and smiling. Nervous. Lightning.

The number 1 hero, they aspired.

Don't leave me behind, they whispered.

 **what**

How unfair, Midoriya thought, that the sun could touch Kacchan in ways that no man ever could. The sun lit him up from the inside-out—his skin, luminescent. Sunlight lent him righteous divinity—crowned in white-gold and ruby-eyed. To be the sunbeams dancing on his skin, Midoriya wished.

How unfair, Midoriya thought, that the wind could play with Kacchan in ways that no man ever could. The wind slid beneath his clothes, billowing them out. How mischievously it pushed him along until he stumbled. To be the zephyr rustling his hair, Midoriya wished.

How unfair, Midoriya thought, that the rain could caress Kacchan in ways that no man ever could. The rain left his skin gleaming and his clothes dripping. The rain lent transparency to Kacchan's body, his white shirt clinging and clear. To be the droplets sliding down his skin, Midoriya wished.

How unfair, Midoriya thought, that the leaves could cling close to Kacchan in ways that no man ever could. The trees shuddered in the wind and crowned him with brittle leaves. They crumbled in his hair when his hand grazed and tightened. To be the leaves adorning Kacchan, Midoriya wished.

How unfair, Midoriya thought, that the moonlight could cover Kacchan in ways that no man ever could. The moon bathed him in a soft glow. Moonlight lent him pensive serenity—subduing the fierceness of his scowl, of his burning eyes. To be the moonbeams soothing him, Midoriya wished.

How unfair, Midoriya thought, that Kirishima could reach into Kacchan in ways that no man ever could. Their hands clasped and faces smiling. This was a world Midoriya could never penetrate. To be at Kacchan's side, Midoriya wished.

 **when**

Two-years old, in matching onesies and lovingly photographed in a snapshot of better times. Round-faced and clumsy.

Four-years old, in a dry All-Might shirt and a waterlogged blue shirt, hand outstretched and anger sprouting roots. Quirks and their existence, or lack thereof.

Six-years old, uniformed and bleak. Deterioration in action.

Eight-years old, uniformed and bleak. Deterioration in action.

Ten-years old, uniformed and bleak. Deterioration in action.

Twelve-years old, uniformed and bleak. Deterioration in action.

Fourteen-years old, uniformed and passionate. Time to get up now. Time to wake up now. Slime-coated and ready to escape. There comes forth a hero. A new hero is born. Another strike against him—unspeakable truth.

Sixteen-years old, uniformed and heroic in a snapshot of dreams come true. Sharp-eyed and strong. Long shadows overlapping in the glare of heroic glory. Oh, how it looms.

 **where**

At home, they are inseparable. Toys scattered across a room as victims of forceful play. Laughter suspended in air, like the the long-lived, dying note of a gong. Yellow and navy flashing on the screen as the hallmark of heroism. Capes clasped around necks. A summer's breeze sets them aflutter. Sunshine on their shoulders and grass beneath their feet. Flowers yanked up, root and all. Petals flutter to the ground in the wind of their running. They have not learned to be careful with the things they love.

At school, they are separate. Deku and Kacchan—unwillingly. Chasing loyally and fruitlessly. Running away from the shadow he casts. The gap widens despite all efforts otherwise. Wait for me. I'm coming. Despair creeps up. Every day is cloudy. Dark and dank, stifled beneath slime. Sunlight peeking through.

At U.A High School, they are equal. Yuuei, the inversion of their dream. Heroes and rivals woken up to their new reality. Fighting against despair, against calamity. Sunrays penetrating deep. Cloudless, starry nights with a luminescent moon. Lightning bolts and thunder cracks. Splitting apart the seam of reality for a better world. The erosion of topsoil. Fertile land salted and burned. Day by day, wrecking the foundation and building anew. A fight, the wrecking ball. The earth is sturdy beneath their feet. Dry warmth baked in the sunshine. The world is an oven, dictating the rise and fall of those enclosed.

(At the dorms, in a bedroom, there exists a glimmer of possibility. A possibility where limbs entwine and red-white smiles flash in the sunshine, in the moonlight. The rustle of clothes and smooth skin stroked. Soft, punched-out noises and hushed laughter. There is a carefulness to their silence. The long stretch of a creature basking in sunlight. Sunwarm forevermore and lovelorn no more.)

 **why**

Why not?

Who else could it be, if not them?

The drive to be better, built on admiration, solidified as their backbone. Sufficient heat and concentration changing their phases.

Nothing gives a man more courage than the smile of his beloved—idols, friends, parents, and lovers. The scowl on his face is like finding home in an old dream you never knew but you still know the words, the actions to the script.

What power. What beauty. Admired in public, admired in secret. Clinical observations overshadowed by passionate declarations. Wrathful declarations cloaking the admiration that gives rise to insecurity. There is that implicit acknowledgment that he, of all people, is worthy.

 **how**

How can we judge a man's heart in a singular action? To decry him as heroic or villainous in one moment and let that define him. He is a lifetime's worth of wear. Unseemly, he is full of seams holding back the tide of his longing, of his aspirations, of his insecurities. Unstitch me, he says, and what will you find? Hot blood that cools in the air. A heart pumping in full futile vigor. Has he a heart? Now you know.

You peel back his skin, wrapping paper and ribbon all. Pink muscle. Layer by layer. The squelch of wet flesh and muscle. Cracking open his bones, you peer in. Shiny viscera. Lungs on their first and last expansion and compression. You breathe him in and he breathes you out. Vivisection or autopsy?

Cannibalism. How he loves him so. Keep him close. Dig deep and feast. His love, carnivorous. The starved hunger of over a decade. Youthful fantasies engulfed by carnal daydreams. The incarnation of lust settling in his bones, replacing his marrow. The carnalities of the flesh. A bite, just a bite, turns ravenous. Bloody carnage. His heart, the corpse of his beloved. Finding home in his skin, replacing musculature and skeleton with his love, his admiration, his determination, his ambition, his his his his and the hiss of a snake unhinging it jaws and swallowing him whole and feasting on itself ad infinitum.

Were that his love so pure that it be chaste.

Electrical impulses firing across synapses. Caged lightning. There are fingerprints on his eyes and the last fading image of friendship. Nitroglycerin immiscible with water. Yet how can they still work in tandem? Is it naïve? Is it hopeless? How can they function? Perhaps there is glory in heterogeneity. To still be accepted despite the hardships—is that not the stuffing of all hopes and dreams? Cotton batting in a polyester quilt, ready to burn. How lovely is his restraint. To not burn down the world when you rage, rage. Hard-earned control and the recognition that the way you are is not enough.

How does he smile?

He looks at him and he looks back.


End file.
